999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [124]
Since most of the wharves extended several hundred feet into the river, there were plenty of crappies, channel cat and garfish free for the taking, provided you had the know-how and patience to catch them, as Sammy Herkimer, one of Flyjar’s better fishermen, was quick to tell anyone who’d listen.
There were several docks to choose from, but Sammy’s favorite was the one at Steamboat Bend. It was a mile or so from town and, because of that, was not in the best of shape. Since that meant keeping an eye on where you walked, not many of the locals used it, which suited Sammy just fine. Then one day, while he was sitting on the dock, sipping iced tea from a thermos, he was surprised to find himself joined by, of all people, Hop Armstrong.
Hop was the closest thing Flyjar had to a fancyman, since the good Lord had seen fit to bless him with good looks but had skimped in the ambition department. When it came to playing guitar and getting women to pay his way, Hop was second to none. But when it came to physical labor … well, that was another story.
“Lord A’mighty, Hop!” Sammy proclaimed, unable to hide his surprise. “What you doin’ here? Someone set fire to your house?”
“You could say that.” Hop grunted. “My woman said I had to bring home supper.”
“That a fact?” Sammy said, raising an eyebrow.
Hop’s most recent sugar mama was Lucinda Solomon, the proprietress of the local beauty parlor. Lucinda was good-looking and well-to-do, at least by Flyjar’s standards. She was also notoriously strong-willed, and rumor had it that in living off Lucinda, Hop had finally met up with something approximating hard work.
Sammy glanced at the younger man’s gear, noting with some amusement that while Hop had remembered to bring along his guitar, he hadn’t bothered to pack a net. He returned his gaze to the river, shaking his head. After a long stretch of silence between the two, the older man spoke up abruptly.
“You know why they call this stretch of the river Steamboat Bend, Hop?”
“I figgered on account of it bein’ a bend in the river and there was steamboats that used to come down it,” he replied with a shrug.
“That’s part of it, but it ain’t the whole reason. A long time ago there was this big ole paddleboat that used to cruise up and down the river called Delta Blossom. She was a real fancy pleasure boat, with marble mantelpieces and crystal chandeliers and gold door handles. When folks heard Delta Blossom was coming, they ran from the houses and fields to watch her pass. Anyways, one day, without any warning, Delta Blossom went down with all hands right about there,” Sammy said, gesturing towards the middle of the river.
“Why did she sink?” Hop asked, a tinge of interest seeping into his voice.
“No one’s rightly sure. Some said the boilers blew out th’ side of the boat. Some said there was a fire belowdecks. Maybe it got its hull punched open by a submerged tree. Who can really know, after all this time? But my old granny used to swear up and down that Delta Blossom was scuttled by catfish gals.”
Hop scowled at the older man. “You funnin’ with me, ain’t you, Sammy.”
“No, sir, I ain’t!” he said solemnly, shaking his head for emphasis. “Before there was any white or black folk, or even Indians living in these parts, there was catfish gals here. They live in the river, down where it’s muddy and deep. They got the upper parts of women and from the waist down are big ole channel cats. They keep their distance from humans and, for the most part, are peaceful enough. Some folks said the catfish gals sank the Delta Blossom on account of one of them gettin’ caught in the paddlewheel and crushed.”
Hop turned to fix the older man with a curious stare. “You ever seen one of them catfish gals, Sammy?”
“No, I ain’t. But I ain’t gone lookin’ for them, neither. But my granny said they was why no one hardly ever finds folks who are fool enough to go swimmin’ in the river. They